


Cup of Tea

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Casual Magic, Don't question it, Established Relationship, Fluff, I guess this counts as urban fantasy, M/M, Sick Fic, much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 16:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16308860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: The thing was, Bond couldn’t shoot or negotiate with an illness. He couldn’t outwit it or shove it out a conveniently placed open window. He could possibly sic Q branch on it, but honestly wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what they were doing in regard to biological warfare.No, all Bond could really do was sit and wait and give ice packs and pain killers and fever reducers as applicable andsit and wait.





	Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look at this one too hard, it may collapse under the weight of your scrutiny. I just wanted to write some fluff to soothe the ache of those necromancy shorts I posted last week. (Meant to post this sooner, but I kept poking it)
> 
> Sorta dedicated to wanderingsmith?? I hope this week is better than the last!
> 
> For reference: 38.8 C = 101.8 F (ish), 38.5 C = 101.3 F, 38 C = 100.4 F

The bedroom was a wasteland of used tissues and empty teacups. Bond was fairly certain the tissues were multiplying when he wasn’t looking, because every time he picked up what seemed to be the last of them, there were more; he would have heard Q blowing his nose, being as it usually involved a rather peculiar honking noise and rather a lot of coughing and gasping, so the mysterious tissues didn’t seem to be coming from him.

(The teacups were actually something of a fixture even when Q was well, so Bond wasn’t as bothered by them, but still a little baffled since he was fairly certain he’d managed to get them all into the wash just yesterday.)

At the center of the mess, surrounded by a nest of blankets he kept tugging over himself even as Bond tugged them off, Q was blessedly asleep. He still looked awful, of course—somehow managing to be both pallid and flushed at the same time, nose rubbed raw, dark circles sitting heavily beneath his eyes—but he was at least asleep. Bond could hear a faint wheeze with every inhale, but still felt the need to occasionally reach over and check for a pulse; Bond had very little experience with partners who looked like death but were not actually dead.

Q had warned Bond, sometime in October, that his immune system was generally terrible. He popped vitamin C tablets like mints, washed his hands until they felt like sandpaper, and still managed to catch at least one small bug every winter. (Bond tried telling him it was because his sleep schedule was crap, but then Q asked him what _his_ sleeping schedule was like and Bond had to drop the argument.)

The problem here was not a small bug, however; the problem was something the internet was telling him was bronchitis or possibly pneumonia. Bond wasn’t entirely sure (being as he seemed to spend the majority of his time avoiding serious medical treatment, rather than seeking it), but he had the feeling he would need to take Q to the A&E soon if his fever didn’t calm the hell down.

Not that Bond was panicking, or anything so unbecoming, it was just that he had never really had to deal with a partner in a state of illness before. His relationships were usually much too short-lived for such mundanities. And he didn’t _mind_ , as such, but Q’s fever had spiked to a somewhat alarming 38.8 earlier, and had only come down to a marginally more acceptable 38.5 through the liberal application of cold compresses and paracetamol and a lot of general concern from Bond.

Q had mostly slept through it, barring the intermittent fits of coughing. Bond almost envied him.

(At which point Bond realized his priorities were probably a bit skewed in this situation.)

The thing was, Bond couldn’t shoot or negotiate with an illness. He couldn’t outwit it or shove it out a conveniently placed open window. He could possibly sic Q branch on it, but honestly wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what they were doing in regard to biological warfare.

No, all Bond could really do was sit and wait and give ice packs and pain killers and fever reducers as applicable and _sit and wait_.

Bond hated waiting.

He hated Q being sick.

He hated feeling so bloody useless.

He hated listening to Q be utterly miserable and not being able to do a single damned thing about it.

Except – well.

There was maybe one thing.

It wasn’t much, but it had kept Bond himself a little further from death before, so why not Q?

Slowly, silently, Bond made his way to the kitchen.

When Bond had been very young, his mother had told him all about the Delacroix bloodline, and how healing magic ran very strongly through it. Bond hadn’t been much interested at the time, but his mother had shown him what she could anyway. Mostly little things that had slipped Bond’s mind or become muddled with other magics he’d seen in intervening years, though there had been a rather useful gesture she’d used on his cuts and bruises that he’d managed to replicate well enough to slow the bleeding of rather more serious wounds later on.

The one other thing Bond had retained was the healing cup of tea.

Well, “retained” might have been a strong word. Vaguely recalled, more like, but Bond had made due with less. He did strongly recall that it was his _intent_ that really mattered when doing things like this, and so, with every intention of making Q well, Bond began preparing a cup of tea. ( _Yet another_ cup of tea. Tea felt proactive, and so Bond had made rather a lot of it over the last few days.)

He muttered half-remembered blessings and disordered incantations over the cup, over the honey and lemon that went into the bottom (honey had a certain kind of magic of its own, he remembered his mother telling him, but it was also good for sore throats), and over the hot water that went over the bag of chamomile tea (excellent for coughing, gentle on the stomach; it was also the only tea in the house that wasn’t caffeinated).

Bond let it steep and stirred it clockwise – always clockwise, though hell if he could remember why. Making a healing cup of tea was rather more complicated than frantically gesturing at a bullet wound so you wouldn’t die, but Bond was nothing if not stubborn. He kept at it, stirring and murmuring, until it was cool enough to drink.

There was no sign to tell if Bond’s half-arsed enchantment had actually taken hold, but Bond supposed a good cup of tea couldn’t hurt either way, and so placed the cup on the night stand before sitting softly on the bed beside Q.

“Hey,” Bond reached out and put his hand over Q’s forehead, checking his temperature even as he roused him.

Q awoke with another wheezing set of coughs that sounded to be coming from somewhere painfully deep in his chest, before settling back and blinking up at Bond with dull eyes. “Hey,” he rasped.

“Still feeling like shit, I see,” Bond offered lightly.

Q only hummed, his eyes beginning to slide shut again. “Don’t sleep yet,” Bond insisted, patting the side of his face, “I made you tea.”

“No,” Q groaned, “Thanks, but… no.”

Bond supposed he couldn’t blame Q for his reluctance; the last thing he’d managed to get into his stomach had been retched up after a particularly nasty coughing fit, and he hadn’t had much of an appetite since. All the same, Bond wasn’t letting the tea go to waste.

“Just a bit. It’ll help, and you need to stay hydrated.”

Q pulled a face, but couldn’t do much but let Bond sit him up against the mountain of pillows that had migrated to his side of the bed and accept the cup that was pushed into his hands. He made it through a good two thirds of the tea before he began to drift, the mug tipping where it sat on his lap, and Bond scooped it up before disaster could strike. It was better than nothing, he supposed.

Bond helped Q settle back down into a slightly more horizontal position, and wondered if it was just his imagination, or if the wheezing really was less pronounced.

It wasn’t until that evening, when Q’s fever had dropped to a very nearly acceptable 38 degrees, the wheezing barely audible and coughing manageable, that Bond allowed himself to feel a bit smug at his accomplishment.

“Thank you,” Q muttered into Bond’s shoulder, curled into Bond’s side now that the aches and pains had all but receded.

“For what?”

“For looking after me. I know it wasn’t easy, and I know you’re not used to it, but I appreciate it,” Q pressed a tired kiss into the muscle of Bond’s arm, “Very much.”

“You’re very welcome. But let’s try not to repeat the experience, hm?” Bond ran a hand over Q’s hair, a familiar gesture from the last few days.

Q hummed in agreement, relaxing against Bond. “Thank you, too, for that cup of tea,” Q murmured after a moment, “It was… very good.”

Bond glanced down at Q and caught the light of _knowing_ dancing in his eyes, but Q said nothing more. He wouldn’t discuss it if Bond wasn’t going to. Slowly, Bond nodded.

“Any time.” He promised.

**Author's Note:**

> [Also posted on Tumblr](http://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/179086665463/cup-of-tea)


End file.
